


What We Have

by electroncloudy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, More tags later, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Slow Burn, Some Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-02
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-19 16:03:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7368244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/electroncloudy/pseuds/electroncloudy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How Jesse McCree and Hanzo Shimada meet each other, leave each other, and then finally find peace with each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost

If Jesse McCree wasn’t a man with a good sense of humor, he’d think that Gabriel Reyes wanted him out of his hair forever with a mission like the one he was on. Two days ago, Reyes had called him into his office for a private briefing, and when Reyes handed him the file, McCree couldn’t suppress the urge to whistle, impressed by the hefty security file.

“Am I gettin’ a vacation for good performance?” McCree grinned, “Can’t ya send me to good ole New Mexico or somethin’? Ya know I ain’t got a lick of Chinese in me.”

Reyes had sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He seemed to do that quite a bit around McCree. Though McCree’s freedom hinged on his good faith and service to Blackwatch, he just couldn’t resist antagonizing his commander once in a while. Otherwise, life got just a little too uneventful.

“McCree.”

“Yessir, present.”

“Just read the damn file, you ingrate.”

“Ya want me to read this whole thing? Don’t reckon I’ve seen a file this big since my own.”

The sudden clap of fist to table sent McCree’s heart lurching to his throat. A digital pen clattered to the floor and rolled to McCree’s booted feet.

“If you need to brush up on your reading skills, I’m sure we can arrange a whole lot of Reading Rainbow for you back in maximum security. Now read the damn file.”

What a dangerous man, McCree thought as he rubbed his chin. If someone got on this man’s bad side… Well, it could end an era. Or something like that.

A few photos came tumbling out from between forms. McCree tipped the brim of his hat down to hide his eyes as he rolled them. Physical documents and photographs on glossy photography paper. He’d straight up call it anachronistic if it didn’t make him a hypocrite. It sure as hell wasn’t good for the environment. But, Blackwatch couldn’t risk having any sort of cybersecurity compromises, so paper it was. Beside all the illegal spying, assassinating, torturing, and all other sorts of shady stuff, Blackwatch just had to add wastefulness to its list of crimes.

Fingering the slick surface of the back of the pictures, McCree flipped one over at random. The photo sure was pretty - a traditional looking courtyard, trees covered in full plumages of pink flowers, an almost dainty gazebo. Pretty.

The next photo was blurry and dark, grainy and at a strange angle. It only captured a shape in a dark robe, standing alone in the middle of a sparse training room. McCree noted that the figure’s back was as straight as a rod and he bet himself a cigarillo that the man in the picture was about as fun as Reyes before morning coffee. A singular name was etched onto the back of the photograph in the hand of some unknown agent: Shimada, Hanzo.

McCree scoffed. Reyes really needed to hire better spies. What kind of dog gone intel is this? Just a name, nothing else. Tossing the photos on an empty spot on Reyes’ desk, McCree shuffled through the rest of the papers – some old newspaper clippings, some agent reports, and at the end, clipped to the back cover of the file, was a summary compiled by some poor sap stuck on desk duty.

The Shimada Clan: criminal syndicate. They participated in international illegal weapons trade, drugs trafficking, money laundering. The list went on and on, and McCree saw his vision swimming. Don’t it just all boiled down to the same thing. It’s just a bunch of thugs. And on top of that, it’s 2060 something, who wasn’t a party of some criminal empire these days? McCree himself was a part of Deadlock for the longest time before he got rolled. There ain’t a single government out there these days that wasn’t corrupted in some way from here to hell.

Recent death of the master of the clan. Shift of power. Jesse McCree found him stifling a yawn. Power play and all that always bored him. He preferred to just go in guns blazing. After a few more minutes of feigned interest, McCree shut the file and set it down.

“So, Gabe,” the cowboy drawled, pulling out a chair and settling into it with a thump. He swung his feet up to the commander’s desk, leaning back, “when’s the flight out to China?”

The commander’s eyebrow twitched. “Japan. Feet off the desk.”

“Korea, whatever,” McCree grinned widely; he was pushing the boundaries.

Gabriel Reyes pretended to not hear the last quip from the scruffy southerner. “You’ll be going to Hanamura, Japan to observe a lead Blackwatch received. Strictly recon and observation. Do you understand me, McCree?”

“No shootin’?”

“Absolutely no shooting.” The Blackwatch leader crossed his arms, daring McCree to challenge him.

“Damn.” McCree whistled, “You really are sendin’ me on vacation, Chief.”

“The leaders of the Shimada Clan have called all their high ranking men home and we want to know why.”

“Maybe they just getting’ together for a backyard barbecue. I could go for a burger right about now. Heard they got good beef over there in Mongolia.”

“Departure will be at 1800 tomorrow.”

“Reckon the Shimadas will have some ketchup? Do they do that over in Thailand?”

Gabriel Reyes’ tapped a finger on his arm pointedly. “You’re dismissed, McCree.”

“Ya want a souvenir from Taiwan or somethin’?”

“Get the _fuck_ out of my office.” Another slam of the table. McCree swore that the fancy reinforced floor shook beneath his feet, or maybe he was just quaking a bit in his boots.

McCree laughed and raised his hands up in mock surrender. “Alright, alright.”

-

After hours spent cramped inside a small stealth plane, a stern-faced female agent shook a sleeping McCree awake. His head had lolled to the side as he rested and a string of drool sat on a corner of his mouth. Yawning, McCree woke - eyes bleary, mouth dry.

“We’re here, Agent McCree. Are you ready for your briefing?” Without waiting for confirmation, the agent continued, “Your pack will have the standard emergency equipment and rations. They should last you a week. We will rendezvous here in four days at 2100 local time. Commander Reyes would like to remind you that you are to report back every night by 0500 local time. He would also like to remind you that you are to use the emergency communication channel only for real emergencies.”

“Hey, what’s he tryin’ to say here?”

“The closest agents will be at the Overwatch base in Hong Kong. Commander Reyes wants to tell you, quote, “You tell that mongrel word for word: if he gets shot full of holes, he won’t be getting help from us. He can cry to Overwatch. Fuck him.” The agent cleared her throat. “End message.”

“Shit. I always knew Reyes loved me.”

“Good luck on your mission, Agent McCree.”

“Tell Gabe to not worry about it. I’ll figure out what’s happenin’ here faster than two shakes of a sheep’s tail. See you in four days, sugar pie.” McCree mock saluted before he picked up his pack and disembarked the plane. After a few seconds, he looked back. The aircraft was already gone, and he was free, at least for a little while. No more bureaucracy breathing down his neck every few seconds. No more Gabriel Reyes howling insult after insult after insult at him. McCree picked at his ear. The memory alone was enough to give him hearing problems.

It’s just Jesse McCree against the world now. And that’s just how he liked it.

-

Jesse McCree scratched the back of his head wondering where his life went wrong. What choices did he make in life that put him here, squatting in someone’s private garden by himself staring at a spread of equipment he hardly understood how to use. He’s never needed anything fancy before, just his six-shooter, some flashbangs, and his trusty Stetson. At least, some of the equipment were straightforward enough: a field medical kit, an all-in-one wrist communicator with all sorts of sensors built in, a distress flare (just in case), and he was already wearing an earpiece that translated the local language into comfortable English that he could understand. Other items in his pack were novel to him, however, or maybe he just wasn’t listening when they taught it. There was some sort of cloaking doodad that create a shimmery effect in front of him when he pressed a button. Now, McCree wasn’t really a man of technology, preferring good old fashioned just being sneaky, but he still ooh’d and ahh’d at the sight, committing himself to using it at least once even if he didn’t think he needed it.

Intel told him earlier that Hanamura Manor (more like a whole god damn castle) was filled with cameras, guards, traps, and all kinds of weird doodads that McCree’s never even had to think about before. But, tonight, McCree didn’t run into any such thing. Maybe God’s smiling down on him after all.

He chewed at the toothpick wedged between his lips aggressively. Slow as hell and quiet as hell, the mission reminded McCree of your typical Overwatch agent. If nothing else, it let McCree’s thoughts wander. The only other thing that sucked more about jobs like this was that he couldn’t smoke or wear his familiar get up. It’s not that the Blackwatch regulation uniform’s impractical or even uncomfortable, it just smelled all wrong - more like wholesale detergent than like smoke and hay. Jesse McCree wasn’t about to be any less effective wearing all black than wearing spurs, but he liked _feeling_ like Jesse McCree during a job and right now he didn’t feel a single bit of that.

Back in the days with the Deadlock Gang, McCree’d prefer to go off on his own sometimes. Got him into a whole load of unnecessary trouble, but he didn’t mind it. It made him feel like Jesse McCree: Badass Motherfucker. Now, he’s just someone’s little puppet. Go here, McCree. Follow orders, McCree. Report back, McCree. It left a bad taste in his mouth, and it wasn’t the toothpick.

Without a single sound, his transmitter flickered on, and McCree sent an updated map of the Shimada manor over to Intel. In just one night, he had already gathered more information on the complex than whatever sissy they had sent before him. Granted, he wasn’t exactly using regulation equipment, and that helped things a bit here or there, but Blackwatch didn’t give a single gosh diddly darn about rules.

If McCree or even Reyes had their way, McCree’d just strut into the office of whoever was the head of the Shimadas, Hanzo or whoever, and put a bullet in his head with Peacemaker nice and neat, thank you very much, and gone home in time to catch some reruns. No more Japanese crime syndicate. Problem solved. Apparently, though, the chaos ensuing from that kind of meddling wasn’t ‘worth it’. Yet, McCree’s fingers still twitched by the holster of his gun. He was itching for action. Not whatever this is. Watching paint dry, that’s what it felt like. Damn it. If they were going to put him in the middle of some sort of weird period drama stage from the 1800’s, they could have at least given him something more than a toothpick to worry on.

As far as McCree had gathered so far the entire manor was readying for the return of their Young Master, a certain Genji Shimada. McCree recalled vaguely a photo he saw in the mission brief of a green haired youth. He had been flashing a charming, toothy smile at the camera, a hand held up against his cheeks in a peace sign. An Overwatch agent was squashed to Genji’s side and looked quite uncomfortable.

McCree chuckled at the memory. Some greenhorn had gone and gotten himself caught by the Shimadas but still made it back. Maybe Genji Shimada ain’t a bad guy compared to the rest of his family. That don’t mean Genji Shimada ain’t an enemy or a criminal. Just that he wasn’t a bad guy.

McCree nodded to himself.

For the first time since his father’s untimely demise, Genji was coming home. Young female servants giggled about it in the secret of their shared rooms, and older servants regaled those who’d listen with tales of a playful and mischievous young master who couldn’t be caged by tradition or walls. Genji was popular and loved, and the Shimada servants’ gossiping made McCree begin to think that maybe he liked Genji Shimada, too. Since Deadlock fell apart, McCree hadn’t felt like he really had much of a family anymore or anyone, really. And it wasn’t like he had anything to do.

Meanwhile, Genji’s brother, Hanzo, only had his name uttered under frightful whispers. The elder Shimada didn’t seem like he made much of a big brother or gang leader. Though McCree had been sneaking around the complex all day and night, he hasn’t spotted a single glimpse of the master of the house. McCree decided that maybe he already wasn’t fond of Hanzo Shimada; it’d make it easier later if he had to put a bullet right into Hanzo’s forehead. He’s probably just some uptight jerk with a back made rod straight by the stick shoved far, far up his ass. Some leader Hanzo was if he didn’t even see his men all day and night. What kind of gang is this if the head just relaxed somewhere by himself and didn’t even go around taking care of his own? Back in the Deadlock, they were like a second family - for some, a first family - which made it suck all that much more when McCree watched Reyes dismantle Deadlock faster than he could draw.

A flash from the proximity detector on his wrist snapped him out of his reminiscing. Two heat signatures were approaching from around a corner of the house. It was time to hide. McCree cursed to himself and slipped into an empty nearby room.

“… have to make a choice,” a voice came into audible range of McCree. Even though his recorder would pick up any sound much better than he could right now, McCree pressed his ear against the thin wall, thankful for the translator piece in his ear helping him understand the foreign language.

“If not. This will test the loyalty of the elder brother.”

“I do not think Genji will comply.”

“Nor I. He may become a liability.”

Though McCree had thought of the weather as warm earlier, a shiver ran down his spine.

“Then Hanzo? He believes that he can convince his brother.”

“He is naïve and young. In this, there is little difference between siblings. However, Hanzo is obedient. He will do as he is told. Of this, I am absolutely…” And the voices faded out of audibility.

McCree leaned against a wall and took another toothpick from his rations pack. He grinded the toothpick between his teeth. Apparently, not everyone is celebrating the return of Genji Shimada. For a second McCree thought that maybe the leaders of the clan wanted Hanzo to off his brother.

“Well, that ain’t right,” McCree said to nobody in particular at all. It’s not going to happen. He’s just letting his imagination run since there was nothing to do. Might as well find a quiet spot and call Reyes and annoy him a bit for entertainment and clear his head.

-

Late in the second day, McCree finally caught sight of the master of Hanamura for the first time. It was in the dojo. Or, that’s what the map transmitted back to him from Intel labeled it as. The main attraction of the room was obviously the large wooden stage in the middle, illuminated by wooden lanterns and sunlight filtered in through wooden slits up high. Flecks of dust danced in the light, and Hanzo stood right in the center where the room was illuminated best. It was as if the sun was raining down on Hanzo - setting his skin aglow. Despite all the splendor cast upon Hanzo from the ancient room, he looked awfully small in it. Alone.

“Well, well. You ain’t so big in real life, are ya?” McCree said, quiet enough so he could barely hear himself, yet Hanzo’s snapped his head up to McCree’s hiding spot immediately. McCree thanked his lucky stars that he had the foresight to use the cloaking device that had been in his pack beforehand, rendering him undiscoverable to the average human being. But, he had a feeling that Hanzo Shimada wasn’t your average human being.

He swore that he could see Hanzo’s hand tighten around the cobalt grip of a long curved sword. The thin steel of the sword glinted even in the dim remnants of sun that spilt into the room. It looked sharp as hell and wouldn’t have a problem cutting through all sorts of fabric and metal. The owner looked pretty capable, too. Hanzo’s back was just as straight as the picture McCree saw, but up close the impact almost knocked the air out of him. His face was all sharp edges – unable to be softened by the curtains of dark hair framing his face. Just like his sword, there was not a single part of Hanzo that didn’t look like it could kill. Everything - his glare, his sinewy frame, the way he walked with his chin jutted high – screamed that the sword wasn’t the real weapon here. And it sure was a pretty thing, McCree caught himself thinking. The sword. The sword. Not the man. The sword. It’s the sword that’s pretty. Don’t misunderstand now. Besides, he already decided that he disliked Hanzo Shimada.

Hanzo stalked a few steps toward the direction of McCree’s high ground perch and sheathed his sword after a lengthy inspection of the area. Seemingly satisfied, he walked toward the grand doors of the dojo. Only when he reached the door did McCree release a breath he didn’t even know he had been holding in. Feeling no small amount of relief at not being caught (Though McCree reckoned he could take on Hanzo any day. He’s not called the fastest draw west of the Mississippi for no reason), McCree ran a hand through his hair. And froze. Hanzo was staring up at him. Their eyes met. And McCree could only think that Hanzo’s eyes were even sharper than the rest of him. Even sharper than that pretty katana. They were dark, dark like the skies out on the ranch in the middle of the night. McCree swore he saw infinity for a moment, and then the sensation was gone as Hanzo pushed the doors of the dojo open and let them slam behind him with a clang.

Underneath his vest, McCree felt his heart flutter all out of rhythm. He exhaled as his hand balled into a fist, convinced that it wasn’t Hanzo riling him up - only the adrenaline of getting caught in the moment. Damn. Damn it all to hell. The vest may be bulletproof. But it sure as hell wasn’t Hanzo-proof.

-

Beside learning that Genji liked ramen with extra slices of meat and listening to the servants bicker over what to serve the young master upon his return, McCree hadn’t discovered much. To his annoyance, the thought of Hanzo’s gaze would creep its way into his mind whenever there was any moment of downtime of which there was much. He swore up and down the Rio Grande that it was because he couldn’t determine if Hanzo had seen him. After all, the young man had looked _straight_ at him with a gaze so intense it could have pierced right through.

On the third day, however, the atmosphere of the manor changed greatly. Servants rushed around with greater earnestness and McCree thought he caught a few troubled expressions on some of the elders’ faces when he spied down on them from a rafter. In hush whispers, the elders agreed to keep Genji away from Hanzo when he returned. Something about not wanting Genji to influence Hanzo. Something about Genji needing to answer for his insolence. Something about wanting Hanzo to make the right choice.

The entire manor buzzed of news of Genji’s return and how glad Hanzo might be to see his brother. Hanzo, on the other hand, was nowhere to be found, and McCree looked.

An hour before sundown, the servants of the house flooded to the front gate of Hanamura manor. Female and male servants alike jumped over each other to capture a glimpse of their returning guest. McCree had found his way out of the manor earlier and observed from a nearby noodle shop.

From an ink black car, a lithe and young figure emerged waving energetically to the ocean of people before him. With hair as green as spring grass and dressed in a white shirt, blinding electric blue blazer and matching shorts, Genji looked like any other young man from any metropolis anywhere. An elderly servant found his way to Genji Shimada and whispered “Welcome back.” The people cheered and Genji grabbed ahold of the servant’s arm and pulled him into a tight hug.

“Where is my brother, Hanzo?” Genji asked, looking around the crowd with a puzzled expression. McCree’s brow stitched together. Yes, where _is_ Hanzo? He found himself irritated at the lack of presence made by the elder Shimada.

The elderly servant nodded in understanding, “He is waiting for you at dinner. It will be some of your favorite dishes, young master.”

Genji smiled the same smile he wore in the photo that McCree had seen. McCree hummed. He definitely liked the kid. And as if it were Moses parting the Red Sea, the servants parted for their beloved Genji and followed him into the Shimada estate.

After a while, McCree set down his empty bowl of noodles and thanked the shopkeeper, fishing for a fistful of miscellaneous Japanese currency out of his pocket and dumped it all on a tray next to the cashier without counting. The register girl protested but before she could even finish counting the amount of money that the foreigner had left, he was already gone.

At the garden in Hanamura Manor, there was a spot that wasn’t guarded by cameras. Or rather, it was, but the tech support back home had already hacked into the system and replaced the surveillance with a loop of the garden from an hour ago; no one will notice a shaggy American sneaking around. McCree flipped himself over the top of the red ceramic tiles of the garden wall, landing on the dirt behind some topiaries with a dull thump.

He flicked on the map, trying to figure out where the Shimada men might be. The sound of loud raucous laughter drifted from the direction of the dojo, and McCree made his way in against the wall of the small pagoda outside, cloaking device already activated. He slipped up the outer stairs and into the same perch he had occupied – partially because it was easier, partially because a small part of him hoped that Hanzo had a habit of glaring at the same spot. There was a secret hidden behind Hanzo’s grimace and McCree was simply dying to know what it was.

Later, on a flight back home, McCree will think back to this exact moment and wish he had never been curious enough to find out just what type of monster Hanzo Shimada was. For the time being, however, McCree’s mind was occupied with the strange imagery below him. The dojo stage was filled with small tables arranged along the edges and men sitting on small cloth cushions drinking and cheering. Hanzo sat at one end, a great scroll of calligraphy behind him. His dark eyes were homed in on his brother like a hunter eyeing the best way to kill his prey. On the opposite of the great dojo, seemingly a million miles away, was Genji. Gesturing his hands all about, Genji conversed with the mass of enraptured people leaning in to listen to his stories

“And then I said no way in hell and I roundhouse kicked him!” Genji punched at the air, “And all the girls were like, ohh, Genji-kun! Take me!”

The men laughed around him, echoing his last words. “Ohh, Genji-kun,” they moaned in unison at him. “Take me,” some others cooed. Genji’s face flushed for a moment but he, too, burst out laughing soon after. Meanwhile, Hanzo was at the other end of the room, surrounded by men who appeared significantly older than him and wore elaborate Japanese costumes. He looked more and more pissed off by the moment until finally he held up his hand and the room fell silent, even the underlings crooning at Genji returned to their seats.

“I wish to speak with my brother. Alone.” Hanzo cleared his throat and just as quickly the room emptied itself beside the old men next to Hanzo and Genji. Some of the men slapped Genji on the back as they left through the double front doors of the dojo, still laughing and merry. As soon as the doors slammed, servants rushed into the room and cleared away the small tables and cushions until the room was once again a room meant for fighting. Spotless. Sterile. Filled with a pregnant silence that engulfed.

Genji’s looked at his brother, and unlike McCree, he seemed completely unaffected by Hanzo’s stabbing gaze. His eyes were softer, rounder, and filled with a soft light that exuded childishness. “This isn’t alone, Hanzo,” Genji observed flatly.

“I trust you have made the correct decision, Genji. You will not disappoint us?” McCree knew that it was meant to be a question but it sounded more like the command of a man who would not accept anything less than absolute obedience.

Genji averted his brother’s gaze, almost awkwardly, “Hanzo, look, I…” His eyes scanned the elders surrounding Hanzo and then the exits of the dojo quickly. “Can’t we talk about it later?” He whined.

In a move all that reminded McCree of Reyes, an elder slammed their hand down on their knee. “Genji. How much longer will you act in this childish manner? It is time to embrace your destiny. This is your fate.”

“W-well, I… I didn’t… really want to do the family business in the first place,” Genji whispered, but as if a fresh sense of courage filled him his voice rose. “All of this, Hanzo, this is what the old man wanted, but we’re different people, we want different things.” He gulped, “Don’t you feel trapped here, Hanzo? I just…” A deep breath, “I just want to be free, Brother.”

A thick murmuring rose from the elders. McCree saw the face of one elder fill with murderous rage, one of the ones that sounded like the ones that he had heard while hiding in a closed room two days ago. Something violent is about to go down. McCree could smell it in the air. His hand slipped to his holster instinctually, fingering the familiar grip of his revolver.

“You mean to,” Hanzo started, voice hesitant as if Genji was speaking of a concept that he would not, could not understand, “You mean to dishonor us.”

“No, no,” Genji waved his hands in front of him, attempting to dispel any misunderstanding between him and his brother.

Hanzo stared across to Genji, eyes inquisitive and confused. “You would throw away all that we have done for you. All that our father has given you for an illusion you call ‘Freedom’?”

“It’s not an illusion, Hanzo. It’s really what I want.” Genji’s voice softened, “You can understand, right?”

“Silence,” Hanzo barked out as he stood to his full height, “How dare you, Genji. Does your impertinence know no bounds?”

Genji stood, too, face contorting into a mixture of frustration and anger, “You’re brainwashed, Hanzo! All you know are what those old skeletons next to you have told you. Do you even care for family? Do you even care for me?”

Hanzo snarled, drawing the same long, curved sword that he had wielded the previous day in the dojo. One of the elders to Hanzo’s side nodded at the youth. “Silence him,” the elder intoned.

“Do not think of me as pitiless, Brother. I will allow you this false ‘Freedom’ you so desire, but you must fight for it with your life.”

As if on cue, a servant from the shadows emerged with a long curved sword, the twin of Hanzo’s, borne in both hands. She approached Genji while bowed at the waist and laid the sword before him and disappeared to the side silently.

Genji’s eyes darted from the sword to his brother than at the elders then to the sword and then once again to his brother. “Hanzo,” he breathed out, chest heaving up and down. Up and down.

“It is time to grow up. The world has changed for us, Genji. It is time to pick a side,” Hanzo sneered, “Pick up the sword and face your fate head on.”

McCree sucked in a breath sharply. The elders of the clan want Genji silenced. He was their former young master and he knew too much and he had to be eliminated if they could no longer control him.

Genji knelt stiffly to the ground and a hand closed around the grip of the sword, “You do not mean to lose this fight, Hanzo.”

“You were never my better. Now face me like a man. Come.” Hanzo beckoned at Genji with a hand.

The younger boy stood up with a dazed expression. His eyes darted to the exits, all sealed shut with a veritable army of guards standing at them. And McCree wondered if the stale, tension filled air burned Genji’s throat like it burned his. “Brother, please.”

“Enough sniveling,” Hanzo slashed at the air and a high pitched whine rang out from the sword as if there were a beast sealed within just waiting for release.

If Hanzo’s blade seemed like a starved beast thirsting for blood, then Genji was a worn and tired game animal that had been chased for far too long – on the verge of surrender. The keen edge dragged against the shiny wooden floor as Genji stood, swaying like a sapling caught in a hurricane. “Brother, please,” Genji pleaded once again.

“You are no brother of mine,” Hanzo roared as he leapt at Genji. The younger man pulled in his brother’s arm and redirected him to the side. Hanzo skidded to a stop and spun to face Genji, sword held out between them.

“We are kin, Hanzo. Don’t do this. Please, Hanzo!” Genji’s voice choked, “I am not asking for mercy. I’m asking you to think for yourself for once! Is this what the old man would have wanted from you?”

“What of what he wanted from you? You continue to dishonor him even in his death. Do you think beyond these walls is freedom? As long as you are Genji Shimada, you will _never_ be free.” The halls rang with the clash of blade to blade, steel to steel, brother against brother, and McCree winced. The elders stared at the two brothers without a lick of emotion on their faces. It was almost as if they were bored with the display and were growing impatient.

Genji slipped once again out of his brother’s strike, and McCree could tell that the kid was fighting a losing battle. Genji was smaller, thinner, and didn’t have the conviction to fight his brother. Each of Hanzo’s slashes and thrusts were aiming to kill, but Genji only wanted to survive. McCree considered muscling his way out of the dojo here and now. There’s nothing left to observe. He thought about how to report to Reyes. Overwatch will need to some agents to Japan. Sounds like the Shimadas might get a bit weaker if the elders were killing off their poster boy. McCree shook his head underneath the protection of his cloaking device. Wasting life was no good, and Genji’s talented. Anybody could see that much, but Genji’s got no Reyes to offer him a deal or a second chance. This was the end of the road for him. Even if he beat Hanzo somehow, McCree has got no doubt that the guards will just pull out guns and fill Genji full of lead without batting a single eyelash.

Damn. He needed a smoke right now.

A cry of pain shook McCree back to reality. The ground was splattered with blood and Genji’s hand fisted his right shoulder. “I don’t want to anymore. I don’t want to be a Shimada anymore, Hanzo. Just let me go my own way!”

“If you are not a Shimada, then you are my enemy.” Hanzo spoke coldly. “If you remain a Shimada, still, you must be disciplined.” Yet, despite this momentary weakness on Genji’s part, Hanzo had not yet struck his brother down. The air seemed to fill with static and McCree’s neck hairs raised on their ends. Instead of sweat and blood, the room filled with a scent much like before a thunderstorm. McCree’s seen enough of that during his childhood. A storm would roar across the Gulf and inland. No matter how hard his family had tried to herd the cattle in and tie the horses down, the ranch still lost a few good animals every year to the storm. McCree’d stand at the window as a child, looking out at the dark towering clouds and wonder which year the storm might claim _him_ instead of livestock. “Dragon! Consume my enemies!”

There was a blue flare like lightning and a boom that made McCree’s ears pop sharply. When McCree regained his sight from the momentary blindness, the sight of Hanzo knocked him breathless yet again but not in a good way this time. It was as if the young man’s eyes were actually glowing with rage and McCree swore he saw a serpentine figure of fire and smoke entwined along Hanzo’s arm, into the sword, and snaked all around the steel, giving it a cold and otherworldly radiance.

Hanzo flew at his brother, impossibly quick, impossibly furious, and Genji seemed suddenly relieved.

“I am not your enemy,” he mouthed, “Dragon god-“ Genji barely had time to cry out before a green light illuminated his sword.

An elder cackled.

And then their blades met. Steel against steel, blade against blade, sparks flew away in every direction, neither sibling giving a single inch of ground. Brow furled, face red in exertion, Hanzo looked like a furious god of war, but Genji, Genji was almost serene – as if he foresaw this outcome.

“Brother,” Genji sighed, shoulder still stained with crimson, “I am not your enemy. The Dragons know it to be true.”

The words Genji spoke seemed to infuriate Hanzo even more. “Silence! A traitor to the Shimada Clan could not understand the will of the Dragons!”

“Watch.”

Almost as if on cue, the internal lights faded from both blades and coalesced in the air between them. They manifested themselves in the form of two winding snake-like creatures – one cerulean, and one jade green. Genji’s smaller dragon seemed curious, playful, almost like his owner, and darted around Hanzo’s blue dragon, slowly taking on the same color. Their dance seemed to bring time to stop. Even the elders looked captivated by the light show given off by the dragons.

McCree seriously thought maybe he maybe got a little too much sun. He rubbed his eyes in disbelief.

Eventually, when the two serpents became almost indistinguishable, they coiled themselves around each other and vanished into rapidly dispersing smoke. And Genji’s face darkened with doubt. It was Hanzo who seemed to snap out of the reverie first. He brought up his sword high above his head and brought it down with such a force that McCree could feel a breeze whistle past his cheek. What a frightening man, he thought.

Genji wasn’t prepared. He could only bring up his sword between them, not braced by any sort of strength. McCree winced. It’s all over for the kid. But the sword-against-sword clash this time rang with a sound so clear, both siblings seemed shell-shocked by it. Hanzo was the one to back off, hopping back with a wild look in his eyes. His brother hesitantly opened his eyes and looked as if he could hardly believe he was still standing. A small steel shard chipped off of Hanzo’s sword from his crazed strike, soaring through the air, landing next to McCree. He dared not touch it.

With a scowl, Hanzo lowered his sword, turned, and kicked Genji in the stomach, sending the unprepared boy flying into the scroll Hanzo had sat under not too long ago. Genji struggled to stand, bracing against his still intact blade, one hand holding his stomach. He coughed. There was blood. Hanzo tramped toward him, expression stormy. It reminded McCree again of the gales of his youth but more like the absolute silence right before.

The tip of Hanzo’s blade must be ice cold as its tip touched Genji’s neck. “Give me one reason, Genji. Repent and we could rule this empire together like it is meant to be.”

Genji laughed weakly. “It was never my dream, Brother.”

Eyes squeezed shut and face scrunched up, Hanzo looked as if he were in more pain than his injured brother. But, the expression was fleeting - a single moment. An elder in the corner of Hanzo’s vision nodded. With a sickening squelch, it was over.

It was red. It was red everywhere. Red ran down Hanzo’s blade, staining its reflect surface opaque. Red pooled on the floor, slick with Genji’s lifeblood. Red even stained the grand tapestry hung up behind Genji’s still body.

The Shimada elders stood – in unison – and the guards parted from the great door leaving Hanzo alone with his brother. McCree stood to leave. There was no use to stay in Japan anymore. This was the grand finale. A glint on the ground caught his attention. It was the shard that flew to him during the fight - a fragment of Hanzo’s sword, a souvenir from Japan. McCree picked it up and pocketed it. He turned around one last time before he left.

McCree has seen plenty of death in his life. He’s caused quite a bit of it, but feeling guilty over things like that was pointless. Yet, when he saw Hanzo kneeling motionless over the scarlet mess that was the remainders of his younger brother, McCree thought that he had never seen a lonelier sight.

-

The mission was over, and that meant it was time to go home. McCree caught himself for a moment, was Blackwatch his home now? Oh, well, he thought as he fiddled with the communicator, struggling to put a line through to Reyes for the report. Reyes wasn’t picking up. Probably had something to do with all of McCree’s teasing the previous day about Reyes and Morrison’s weekly bar date. _Strictly professional_ , McCree thought, _strictly professional, my white, southern ass_. Now he was getting punished. He’s stranded in Japan all the way until transport comes to pick him up on schedule. What’s a cowpoke supposed to do in Japan?

McCree leaned against the garden wall, taking out a toothpick. Hell, maybe he could find something to smoke to pass his time. There’s bound to be a small store around and he’s got a few Japanese dollars left.

The acrid smell of smoke stung at his nostrils. There was a fire and it was nearby. The mixed smell of rotting garbage, burning trash, and a distinct scent – burning flesh, made McCree’s nose tingle. He strolled around the side of the house until he found the source of the blaze. It was a metal composting bin that had been set ablaze from the inside. The Shimadas probably didn’t know he was around, but if he was going to camp in their garden, he didn’t want to deal with the smell. They can burn their trash later. It must have been recent that the compost heap had been lit anyway. No one will notice if he just shut the lid and smothered the flame.

He stepped on a crick on the side of the bin, stepping up to reach for the cover when a movement caught his eye. At the top of the pile was the body Genji Shimada, staring wide eyed at him. “God damn it.” Those Shimadas have no heart. McCree swore, averting his eyes. He looked back and Genji’s eyes were closed.

Shit. Shit. _Shit_. The kid was still alive. McCree cursed out loud. This ain’t part of his mission. He should just let the kid pass on in peace. He was all slashed up and if that wasn’t about to kill him, the fire was about to. As if on cue, the small blaze flared up against McCree, drying his face in an instant as something particularly flammable went alight.  McCree reached in, with not a single consideration for the ruckus he was making digging in Shimadas’ trash bin, and dragged the burning Genji out by an arm. He dumped the body on the dirt. Working at a fevered pace, McCree ripped the burning clothes – all but rags now - from Genji and stripped off his own jacket, smothering any residual tongues of fire, thankful that his own uniform was fireproof as well as bulletproof. What skin remained underneath shined pink and blistering with ugly splotches of burnt black char. McCree recoiled instinctually. This wasn’t pretty at all.

He fumbled for his medkit. There was no way there was anything in there. A ball of gauze, some spray-on wound sealer, a suture kit – there was not a single thing useful for this situation. Panicking, McCree ran a hand through his hair. He’s only good at taking lives, not saving them.

The communicator blinked. McCree smashed at the button to pick up, missing three or four times before Reyes’ gruff voice barked in his ear. “What the fuck do you want, McCree? I swear. If you called in for no fucking reason I-”

“Shut up, Gabe! Will ya just fuckin’ listen? I’ve got Genji Shimada here,” McCree pointed the camera of the communicator down at the figure before him. The silence from the communicator, somehow, was even worse than Gabriel Reyes’ customary verbal abuse. “You gotta do something. This ain’t right.”

“You’re going to explain to me good and well how this happened when you get back. Call Overwatch.” Click. And Reyes was gone.

McCree pulled at his hair. Some commander Reyes ended up being. He spent a second cursing Reyes, Reyes’ mother, and for good measure, his Nanna, too, before McCree put in the call for Overwatch, Hong Kong.

A woman picked up. “Hello? Identify yourself.”

“It’s McCree.”

“I’m sorry? McCree? Who is this. How did you get this number?” A voice in the background spoke to the dispatcher and a click indicated that McCree had been transferred. He groaned, feet tapping the ground in rapid staccato. This was no time to play telephone.

Soft, gentle, angelic. “Jesse? Jesse McCree, is that you? It’s me, Angela.” Gabriel Reyes must have known that Angela “Mercy” Ziegler, the best doctor in the world in McCree’s books, was currently stationed at Hong Kong.

McCree felt as if he could cry. “Doc, I need your help.” McCree stilled the camera in his shaking hand, breath ragged.

Angela Ziegler inhaled sharply. “Oh, Jesse… That doesn’t look good. How are his vitals?”

“I ain’t got time for your fancy science talk, Doc!”

Silence.

“I received mail from Gabriel. I can be in Hanamura in 45 minutes. Could you get to somewhere safe and activate your emergency transmitter? Keep him conscious if you can. Talk to him. Maybe the fire has cauterized his superficial wounds. Hmm… Pack the chest wound with gauze and do try to make sure he doesn’t bleed out.” Angela Ziegler spoke, the ending of her words running into the beginning of the next. Her screen shaking up and down as she instructed McCree while hurrying down some nondescript hall.

McCree nodded, then realized that the woman on the other end had no way of seeing him, “Got it,” he hung up. In what is probably the worst field medic job ever, Jesse crammed wads of gauze into the large gash down Genji’s chest. It wasn’t that deep, but deep enough to send McCree’s ramen dinner lurching. McCree retched, feeling the beginnings of acid burning his throat. He swallowed and slung the body onto his back, making a beeline straight for the front door. This was no time to be subtle. “Hang in there, kid.” Angela’s words echoed in his mind. Talk to him. Gotcha, Doc. “You’re gonna get some good help. I promise. Angela’s nice. Real nice. She’s gonna treat you real well. Just live. She’s smart. A’ight, you hear me?” McCree said, half pleading, “Someone told me once, some kid gone and got the entire right side of his body blown off and Angela just made him a new one. Ain’t that somethin’? Don’t you fuckin’ go and die on me now before you see her. Ya like pretty girls, don’t ya, Genji Shimada? Shit. She’s like a real angel. Ya ain’t see nothin’ yet. So, don’t die on me. Fuck you if you do. I ain’t carrying your heavy body like a pack horse just to have you die on me now.”

“Listen up, kid. I messed up real bad, too, when I was your age. Not sayin’ you did anythin’ wrong. Your brother’s a real jackass, ain’t he? Anyway, gone and got my whole gang thrown in the slammer. I got a second chance. Shit. You can, too. Look. Maybe Angela will fix you up real good, then you can join Blackwatch. How does that sound? Reyes’ got this huge stick up his ass. I’m bettin’ it’s Morrison’s. Ha. How d’ya like that? Come on, kid. Come on. Laugh.” And McCree found himself alone in a small, dark alley, lit by the dissipating light of day.

-

Mercy arrived right on time. Exactly forty-five minutes after the call ended, her winged figure floated down to McCree’s alleyway. With a hiss, her wings folded themselves against her and the hard-light feathers dissipated. The medic took a device out of a side pocket and scanned it across Genji. “Barely, but still with us. You can relax, Jesse.” Touching her headset she whispered orders into it, naming just about a million drugs and pieces of equipment in rapid succession she wanted the medical bay at headquarters to have at ready for her in the OR.

She signaled up into the air and a stretcher descended down to them. McCree dumped Genji’s spent body onto it and clung to the rope as it dragged them back up. The good doctor flew up and entered the hatch, removing her headset with a sigh, shaking her hair out.

“You got a smoke, Doc?” McCree struggled to place a small smile on his face.

She touched his shoulder with a hand, pushing him toward a nearby seat. “Jesse, I think you should rest. Here. Have some water before we talk. I’m sure you and Gabriel will need to have a long discussion about this mission.”

McCree reluctantly took the bottle of water from Angela’s hands and sat against the Medi-copter’s wall. He thought back to what he had just witnessed in the past two hours – preparing himself for the debrief.

There was Hanzo. Hanzo Shimada. He’s Genji’s brother. There was some sort of weird thing with dragons. A real bona fide light show if McCree’s ever seen one. But, after all the action that had happened, McCree could only think of Hanzo’s unmoving figure, standing over his fallen brother. He could only think about the black robes that fluttered about Hanzo’s body - undoubtedly stained with blood but too dark to reveal it – and the crimson blade of Hanzo’s sword, laid down on the ground. Ugly. Damaged. Broken.

Jesse McCree didn’t know it. He swore he didn’t know a single bit of anything at all in that moment. In that moment, there was no way of him knowing that he saw Hanzo Shimada hold a sword for the last time in his hands. There was no way Jesse McCree could have known, that though he would never see Hanzo wield a sword again, that it would not be long until they met again.


	2. Confessed

In the quiet darkness of his room, when he allowed himself to think about it, McCree wasn’t proud of much in his life. He could have gone to school, found a respectable job, married a nice girl, had some kids, made his Ma proud, but instead he ran off with a gang and failed there, too - went and got himself busted, captured, thrown into a tiny closet cell with cold concrete floors and cuffs that dug into his wrists until they cut. The gang had promised to never give each other away no matter what. Not even the threat of death could separate a true Deadlock from his secrets, but McCree had been broken (in) by day after day of a lonely, silent cell. The temperature were high enough to keep his throat parched and fed only enough food to be kept on the edge of life. After an eternity - light, freedom, Gabriel Reyes’ face before him – offering salvation – holding his chin up though his beard had been covered in rotting food scraps from being forced to eat without hands. Dizzy from starvation and half crazed by isolation, McCree spat in Reyes’ face which was met with a boot in his gut. And he couldn’t remember much of what happened after that. The flow of his memories had become a broken reel that cut from that moment to the moment when he accepted Reyes’ offer thirstily and became Blackwatch and became a traitor. That was only the first of many jobs. And, for the longest time he didn’t think about what was right or wrong; he was just a lonesome cowboy fighting to keep his own freedom. But, one day McCree woke up with storms and dragons on his mind and realized that the only thing he might have done right in his entire life was saving Genji Shimada. He could think of nothing else.

Only in the quiet darkness did he allow himself to dwell on these things.

In the beginning, when he returned from an op, he would stop by the intensive care unit where Genji Shimada resided and observed him from distance, pulling out a smoke until Dr. Ziegler smacked his hand and snatched it away. Genji’s eyes were dull and his body was constantly covered by a blanket, undoubtedly heated underneath for comfort, but, early on, with a sad expression, Dr. Angela “Mercy” Ziegler had pronounced him unable to respond to stimulus for the time being.

“Give him time,” she sighed. So, McCree gave Genji time and watched him from across the medical bay. Genji never spoke to anyone, and sometimes at night in the restless minutes before oblivion, McCree swore he could still hear Genji’s laugh ringing in his ear only to end in the heavy sound of metal through flesh.

He had become haunted.

Despite his heavy thoughts when alone, McCree still performed as he was told. He was good. He was the best. Even Gabriel Reyes begrudgingly admitted that McCree was his brightest pupil. In a sense, though, that was not a thing to be proud of. On a mission to bust an illegal weapon manufacturing factory, as he pulled the trigger to end the life of a father turned violent by the death (death? Murder.) of his son by McCree’s Blackwatch partner, McCree thought he had learned plenty from Reyes. He had learned how to make people who didn’t want to talk, talk, but he knew he didn’t have a single bit of what made Reyes tick because he wondered, still, when it was quiet, when it was peaceful: What did he look like to the people he crossed paths with? Some gave him unsolicited suggestions of what he looked like to them: monster. He took a good look at himself in the mirror every morning. It was the same ‘ole Jesse McCree - smile crooked, arms tanned, hair untamable by water or product. But, maybe, maybe he noticed that his cheeks hurt a bit when he smiled from not being used to it anymore, and sometimes, no matter how much he rested, his arm felt a bit heavy when he held Peacekeeper. Did his eyes also hold the same hollow, glazed over expression that Genji Shimada’s did after experiencing betrayal at the hand of his (McCree assumed) once beloved brother? The only way to find out was to ask himself, so McCree did.

Seven months after Genji was admitted to the Overwatch headquarters’ medical bay, McCree found himself sitting on a tiny stool in the corner of Genji’s room. That day, he was awake, staring into the distance again – straight at an artificial window someone must have placed there for him. It had a frame painted to look like wood but was really plastic and displayed grassy fields and blue skins – an illusion. McCree stared at it, too. “Hey, Shimada. I got a question for ya.” No response. “When are you gonna be okay?” But, really, what McCree meant was ‘Am I going to be alright?’.

No response.

McCree shut the door behind him as he left. And, every day he could after that, he visited Genji in his single room in the medical bay to talk to the half-man, half-machine.

As time passed, Genji’s body became increasingly mechanical and McCree felt as if he, too, was being replaced by steel and wires. It used to be different. Blackwatch ops meant blowing up a rogue Omnium with illegal explosives. He was saving lives. But, now. Now, McCree wasn’t sure. He found himself showing up in Reyes’ office more and more for poor performance and behavior. (“I will not tolerate treason. I taught you everything you know. I made you.”) He tried to explain himself: “It ain’t sabotage. I’m just tryin’ to do what’s right.” Gabriel Reyes would snort in disbelief and sign McCree over to yet another mission with Overwatch – more regulations, more eyes on him, less freedom, but it was humane. He started to think that Reyes was trying to do him a favor.

One day, five months after McCree began his daily vigil over Genji’s silent and still body, while on loan to Overwatch, Angela Ziegler called McCree over after dinner. She handed a long package to him. McCree had raised an eyebrow and tore into the cardboard box to reveal a sheathed sword wrapped in silks. “Bring this to him,” Angela said, her blue eyes boring into McCree. He shrugged and brought it to Genji during his daily visit and placed it on his lap.

No response, at least at first.

Genji brought a hand from the warmth of the heated blanket he couldn’t feel and brushed aside the sword’s covering with a robotic hand. McCree forced himself to look at Genji in the eye.

“This is Ryuu Ichimonji. My sword. It is – was – my soul, but no longer.” He spoke in accented English for the first time and McCree had been only vaguely aware of an Angela Ziegler behind him who had sank to the floor, hugging her knees, weeping quietly.

And so time slowly passed for McCree and the rest of the world. He went on missions and no longer told Genji about them, but on occasion, they would sit in the Overwatch rec room together, McCree with a cup of steaming dark coffee in his hand and talking about anything at all just to keep the quiet at bay – a self-professed traitor and the betrayed shooting the breeze together. Neither asked the other about their pasts. It seemed to McCree that life was settling down a bit and that this was the closest he would get to some peace and quiet, the closest he would get to having a place where he belonged. He thought that maybe Genji thought the same way, too. It was a surprise to him, then, when Genji showed up at his door one morning – three years after his new lease on life – to say goodbye.

“McCree- _san_ ,” the masked man said, bowing at the waist, “Good morning.”

“Oh, howdy,” McCree rubbed the back of his head. He told Genji sometime ago that they were friends as well as coworkers now, no need for all the formalities, but Genji insisted. It made him wonder of Genji would have been like that before the incident.

“I have come bearing two items of news.”

“Shoot.”

“May I come in?”

McCree opened his door wider, standing to the side to allow Genji in. Angela and her team of bioengineers had outdone themselves on Genji. His foot falls were silent even as he walked right past McCree.

The silence between the two was palpable as Genji turned slowly in place, taking in the sight of McCree’s room. Dirty mirror, messy bed, an old wanted poster of McCree’s from his heyday that he pinned up for a chuckle now and then when things got too serious – a room with personality, that’s what McCree wanted to show off, but he found himself feeling slightly bashful in light of his cyborg friend’s silent scrutiny. Finally, Genji pulled the chair out of the desk that McCree hardly used except as an impromptu closet for all of his clothes. McCree snatched his serape off the chair back and threw it onto his unmade bed. Genji sat, back straight – rod straight. _No fun_.

He was first to break the silence, “I have decided to leave.”

Of all the things that McCree expected from Genji, that was not one of them. “You are?” A pause. “Where are ya goin’?” _You ain’t got nowhere to go_.

“I have already discussed this with Commander Morrison. He was gracious enough to give me his blessings.”

“Yeah,” McCree drawled, “I figured Morrison’d give you the okay, but where are ya goin’?”

“Anywhere,” Genji replied. “Since my,” he paused. “Since my disagreement with Hanzo, I have been unable to summon the strength of the Dragon Gods. I believe they find myself as I currently am unworthy.” McCree had seen Genji’s mastery in swordsmanship on the battlefield many times, but he couldn’t recall a single time where Genji had brought out the dragon. He just assumed that Genji didn’t need that anymore. After all, he was faster, sturdier, and for all intents and purposes, better in every way than he used to be – better off, now, without a traitor brother.

The room seemed to recede away from McCree as he recalled the details of that day, three years ago, when he had last seen the dragon spirits that had enveloped the two brothers’ blades. “Ya mean that Shimada magic? Why can’t ya find that with Overwatch? Ain’t they all about justice and all that.” Instead of working for his shady family, Genji got to save lives, be a hero, most of all, be free. This was better.

Genji took the thick woolen thing from McCree’s bed, fingering the material between his fingers for some time before folding it neatly in his lap. The cleaning was a new habit of his that he confessed to not have had before. “Yes. I, too, believe in Overwatch as a worthy cause. However, I cannot help but feel as if I have yet to find my destiny. I believe there is meaning in this life that you have granted me somewhere. Perhaps it is out there. Perhaps not.” He answered, contemplative. This, too, was a new habit of Genji’s that didn’t exist before. (“I wish to better understand him,” was all Genji had said about it when McCree asked about all his new habits one sleepless night after finding Genji in the kitchen, throwing out expired food.)

“So, revenge is’t? Now, I know I ain’t the kind of guy you’d want to hear this from, but I don’t think that’s a mighty good idea,” McCree paused before continuing his lecture.

“No,” Genji interrupted. “I have no desire to bring harm upon Hanzo. He truly believes me to be dead and perhaps that is the worst punishment he could suffer. I do not think he would accept this thing that I have become anyway.”

McCree scowled. He didn’t get why Genji was hung up over that damned brother of his. Overwatch was Genji’s new family now – the family that would never betray Genji like Hanzo did. “Ya ain’t gotta leave.”

“It is something I must do. I have seen senselessness in both man and machine, and now, I must find reason for my own existence.”

“Well, a’ight, then.” Though still skeptical, McCree let it go. Genji’s his own person. He can do whatever he wants, because he’s Overwatch and a hero and he can be free in a way that a crook like McCree could never imagine for himself. “What was the other thing?”

As fluid as Genji’s new body was, he still looked awkward as he spoke, “Commander Reyes asked me before I arrived here to ask you to meet him today.”

“That’s it? Nothin’ else?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I ain’t got a dog gone clue what Reyes wants with me. But, thanks, Genji.”

“It is my pleasure. I will be departing soon, so I must go say goodbye to everyone else.”

McCree nodded. “Yeah, make sure you give a holler to Angela. She’ll be wantin’ to know you’re goin’.”

“I have many things I must thank Doctor Ziegler for.” Genji bowed, “I do not know if our paths will cross again, but I sincerely hope that we will meet again under auspicious circumstances. Perhaps we will both find peace in our existences.”

As Genji walked down the hall, McCree noted that he had not one but two swords strapped to his back – the long green hard-light blade he had gotten used to seeing and Ryuu Ichimonji. The clash of new and old looked a bit odd, but it brought a smile to McCree’s face. Genji’s got two souls now, and maybe, just maybe, he’ll one day realize that they’re really one and the same. He waved to Genji’s receding back as one Shimada exited his life and he headed to Gabriel Reyes’ office to be sent on his way to meet the other, though he did not know it at the time.

-

A week later, after an entire day of trudging through thick underbrush and dense woods, McCree found himself poking at a slipshod campfire alone in the middle of a small clearing. He was exhausted and the halfhearted attempt in front of him was all he could manage. It wasn’t as if the weather was cold or the animals frightening. McCree reckoned he could probably tussle with a bear and come out on top on a good day just fine, but it was the dark. It was the darkness that he didn’t want to face – the same darkness that got him through his ops.

This time, Blackwatch hired McCree out as an independent mercenary, and it sounded simple enough. Drawn by the infamous Deadlock name and McCree’s decade old reputation as an unequaled duelist, he was snatched up by an anti-Omnic rights group – just as planned. As far as the public was concerned, Jesse McCree had been busted by Overwatch over a decade ago but escaped to run wild and free. Yipee ki-yay and all of that. It was a convenient story, perhaps too much so, but his new employers didn’t ask a single question about his past and gave him instructions to a location to rendezvous with his partner – the assassin he was hired to protect. They were to meet up at a location and then silence an official that had been poking his nose where it didn’t belong. Except, McCree took a look at the glowing green digits on his communicator clock and yawned, it’s been three hours since the promised time and here he was, alone, trying his hardest to think of anything to keep his mind from wandering. He counted the leaves on the branch above his head, and when he got bored of that, he picked at the bark from the base of the tree that he sat at, and he was bored of that, he threw flecks of dirt into the fire, anything to avoid looking directly into it ‘cause he swore he could see the faces of the dead there. The rough texture of the tree trunk grinded into his scalp as he rolled his head back and forth, trying to stay awake until he gave up, slapped his hat on the ground and closed his eyes.

A dull thump on the ground next to him sent his eyes flashing open and a hand to the gun at his hip, half a snore still echoed in his ears. A sack wrapped in dark patterned silk had appeared on the ground next to him. Curious, he rose to a crouch and prodded the sack with the barrel of his gun. In the cool breeze, the leaves above him swished and swooshed, and when they quieted, a pair of prosthetic legs had appeared next to the sack. McCree allowed his eyes to slowly follow them upward to the metallic knee that ended abruptly into dark, slack pants ringed with tiny golden half-moons patterns and then up into a tunic of some sort, secured by an azure sash, and finally to a regal face staring down at him. It was nostalgic somehow.

“Sloppy,” the man spat, the accent sounded awkward to McCree’s American ears.

McCree scowled. “Ain’t ya the one sloppy for showin’ up three hours late, Jetlag McGee.”

“That is _not_ my name.” A mirroring scowl darkened the assassin’s face. A memory of Angela Ziegler saying that when people are interested in each other, they tend to copy each other’s movements and expressions crossed McCree’s thoughts. Sorry, Doc, you must have gotten something mixed up, because McCree immediately found himself disliking his new charge.

“Well, ‘scuse me. Why didn’t ya come on down and say howdy, then, pardner?”

“Partner.” He scoffed, all derision and scorn. “Idiot.”

“Hey, who are ya callin’ an idiot.” McCree stood to his feet, walking into the other man’s space until their chests were almost touching. Even at this act of intimidation, the other, despite being smaller, did not back down even a bit. His eyes held McCree’s, unwavering and as cool as steel.

“I was told I would be working with an American. Instead I am met with a simpleminded imbecile who cannot even speak his own language.”

McCree decided to himself, then and there, that his new partner was a complete and utter Jerk (with a capital J). “There ain’t no official language in the States. You shut your mouth.” McCree punctuated his words with a sharp prod to the Jerk’s chest.

He swatted at McCree’s hand, none too gentle. “Do not tell me what to do.”

“You don’t get to tell _me_ what to do.”

“Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Stop talking.”

“Only if you stop talkin’ first,” McCree sputtered, finding himself on the backpedal despite himself. After a short contemptuous glare shot at McCree’s direction and the smaller man shimmied his way up a nearby tree without a word, disappearing into its foliage.

McCree huffed, annoyed, and settled down back at the seat of his tree, smacking his hat over his face to block out the light of the receding campfire. He couldn’t sleep. A moment later he threw his hat at the ground, “You ain’t ever told me your name.” No response. “Name’s McCree. Jesse McCree. Just holler if ya need anythin’.”

The response was silence and McCree sighed. He got off on the wrong foot with his new partner and he was bound to get a tongue lashing from Reyes if he fouled up this job by just his insufferable self. Still, the other man was being stubborn, he convinced himself, thinks he’s too good to talk to McCree, looking down on him as if he were a piece of shit that he had stepped in by accident.

The wind blew through the trees again, putting out the struggling fire and bringing darkness cascading down around him. And with it came a name, spoken upon a soft rumble. “Hanzo Shimada.”

McCree didn’t let his body betray him. He remained still, leaning against the tree trunk as if his life depended on it, muscles as tense as a live wire. His fingertips itched, his throat burned, he wanted to ask so many questions but also drag Hanzo Shimada down from the tree himself so he can stare him in those deep, dark eyes and ask how he could live with himself after what he did to Genji, his friend. But, another thing McCree had learned from Gabriel Reyes was that you never mix work and emotions. He swallowed – mouth as dry as California during a bad drought and chased the stray thoughts of his thoughts, falling into fitful sleep.

That night, McCree dreamt of dragons and storms again. In his dream, he was a child, standing at the windowsill of his home until the frame was torn away by violent gusts, leaving him alone in a vast emptiness. Two great serpents wrestled in the air until one dashed the other to the ground, and claws still embedded in the heart of the other, the great dragon turned to McCree and asked him something wordlessly with its jeweled eye.

“ _Are you lost?_ ”

In his dream, McCree screamed out an answer only to have the sound torn away from him by the boom of thunder and a vicious torrent of rain. The dragon - unimpressed, proud, dispassionate, and disdainful – laughed and consumed him whole.

McCree woke with a start, sweat dotting his forehead and soaking through his shirt. He gasped for air as if he had been drowned.

 _I am lost_ , he confessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Thanks! always to Daximed and all her support!  
> 

**Author's Note:**

> HUGE. THANKS TO:  
> \- Cap! For putting up with me falling all over myself freaking out.  
> \- Daximed! For keeping me IN THE GAME.  
> \- The McHanzo Discord (how do I link things in the end notes??) for being supportive and listening to me complain over writing this. And all the people who helped me edit (Especially zaya) or read and gave me comments at some point. Many! Hugs! And THANKS!  
> \- ALSO? I'M. SORRY FOR THE VAGUE SUMMARY I HAVE NO IDEA. HOW TO WRITE IT.  
> \- PLEASE! Feel free to give feedback!  
> Oh, umm. I also have a [tumblr](http://denshikumori.tumblr.com/)? so. come! stop. by i? love talking about. cute headcanons. and stuff!


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